


the spaces between

by cloudburst



Category: King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017)
Genre: Lols, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 10:05:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11079354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudburst/pseuds/cloudburst
Summary: Goosefat Bill thinks he now knows a thing or two about love.





	the spaces between

**Author's Note:**

> idek if these two had any REAL interaction but hey, two strong faves = one strong thang

The first time Bill had glanced at him—a minute movement of the eye—he had laughed. It wasn't an audible noise, more to himself than anything. He'd murmured the nickname Arthur had assigned to the man when they were children, children who were now long gone: _Wet Stick._ He wasn't sure of the other man's real name at the time, too caught up in the whirlwind of the Born King's return. But the first time he'd looked at him—and he means really, truthfully looked at him—it had been instant infatuation. It was instant connection with his words, immediate adoration for the dimples at the corners of his cheeks. It was over dinner one night, before Back Lack had died, and before the world seemed entirely gone to shit. Wet Stick had been laughing, and it was cliché, but the light from the candle seemed to be dancing across his face—flame flickering with the mirth in his eyes. Arthur let it slip, in the stolen, simple moments between their plot for his ascension: _"Tristan."_ His name was Tristan.

And throughout the harebrained schemes of Arthur's to take down Vortigern, or not so harebrained—depending on how one viewed the situation, he came to know Tristan. It was accidental, really; he'd never intended to realize the other man preferred management over swordplay—never intended to know his habits as if they were his own, or the way he would smile just a little wider when it was just the two of them. Goosefat had never meant to sit around a fire with him, late at night, just talking. They were on borrowed time, but _oh_ , did he love to spend currency that wasn't his to use. It was a gamble of the most dangerous kind, and perhaps that's why it became clear to him what he wanted when Tristan smiled—light of the fire illuminating his face, sitting on the ground outside the hideout. 

_"It's going to be dangerous."_

_"Danger is my middle name."_

_"Goosefat William 'Danger' Wilson? I'd hate to meet your parents."_

_"My parents didn't supply the name Goosefat, you know."_

_"I'll take your word for it._

And he knew he would steal to preserve that moment in time, but the only thing stolen was his breath—Tristan's hand coming to rest on his shoulder, then his cheek accompanied by the smallest smile. "You'd better." 

Then Bill Wilson felt they were no longer speaking about the same thing; he nodded. The hand stayed pressed to his face—thumb moving in a slow back and forth motion across his cheekbone. "Whatever you want, Tristan."

The hand fell from his cheek. There was gentle breath—lips at his neck. He felt the ghost of a smile in Wet Stick's muffled words. "Don't say things you don't mean, Wilson."

* * *

He shot from 175 yards away. The arrow went straight through. People were screaming. They were screaming. 

_Tristan is down there._

The Black Legs released an arrow to the sky—flying to reveal their position. 

_Tristan is down there._

Rubio is hurt. There is yelling. Can he make it up? Arthur is asking him—asking him many times. Rubio says he can make it. 

_Where is Tristan?_

Carnage—as far as he can see. Goosefat Bill cannot get a shot off, nor can any man. But how is he to know if he is safe? Who is safe? 

_He needs to be safe._

* * *

They were once more by a fire, just the two of them; but this time, it was different. Something had changed. Perhaps it was their awareness of themselves, and each other, for Bill was now all too aware what he'd have done if he'd lost Tristan. Tristan could have said the same. There were no words by the light Wet Stick's eyes had come to dance with all too well. Only was there breath from each steady exhale, and imminent sorrow for the time they may lose.

* * *

The night Arthur had taken the throne, they took back their lost time in between breathless kisses and stolen moments. 

Bill was no mage, but he knew magic


End file.
